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Then Dad ran over to home plate, and Savannah wriggled down from Connor and jumped into her father’s arms. “Daddy, Daddy, did you see that?”
“Are you kidding? It was amazing!” he said. “My little girl hit a homer! I’m so proud of you, baby!”
Colleen waited for him to glance over at her with that same fond smile she was getting from people on both teams.
It didn’t come. He only had eyes for Savannah.
Colleen’s happy bubble deflated a little. She looked away.
“Okay, okay, batter up,” Mr. Holland said, and Paulie picked up the bat and came to the plate.
Colleen assumed the position, bending her knees. But she kept looking over at Dad. Savannah was in the dugout, still accepting congratulations from the team, chattering in amazement, her eyes bright, gesturing wildly, completely at home with her peeps. Dad kept looking over at her, beaming and pointing—Who’s my girl?—and accepting some backslaps of his own for having raised such a little prodigy.
He still didn’t look at her.
Did he not know? She could’ve had Savannah out easily. Did he not know that she’d deliberately given the little girl a great moment to cherish, especially because his shallow trophy wife was fixated on some stupid idea of what a little girl should be like? Did Dad truly not get it? Did he—
And then there was a crack, and a thunk, and Colleen was suddenly down on her knees, and holy sphincter, her head! She clapped a hand to the spot that was justyelpingin pain and saw the baseball at her feet.
She’d been hit in the head with a frickin’ ball.
“Ouch,” she said faintly.
What would Jeter do? Colleen picked up the ball and tossed it to Robbie, who fired to first. Runner was out.
And so was she. The dirt rushed up to greet her, and all was quiet.
* * *
BEINGCARRIEDOFFthe field had a certain élan to it. A certain horrifying, embarrassing, completely unsexy élan.
Marian Field, the mayor of Manningsport, insisted that she go to the hospital, Jeremy concurred, and the volunteer EMTs, half of whom were at the game, couldn’t have been happier, as they loved pain and misery, especially the accidental kind, since it would give them something to brag about at O’Rourke’s.
So she was put in a neck brace and on a backboard, which was ridiculous and more uncomfortable than a baseball to the head. And now she was just lying here like that dead porcupine, Ned Vanderbeek holding an ice pack on her head and trying not to laugh.
Lucas was holding her hand.
It was a disturbingly wonderful feeling.
She kept jerking it away. He kept scowling and taking it back.
“Can we please get this show on the road?” she asked, pulling her hand free for the eighth time. Gurneys. So not her. She tried to get up, and Lucas gently pushed her back down.
“The patient is combative,” Ned Vanderbeek said, grinning.
“I’ll give you combative, little boy. Lean in closer.”
“Stop whining,” Lucas said, taking her hand again.
“I’m not whining. I’m demanding. And why are you acting all possessive and concerned? I got bumped in the head. Big deal.”
“You got knocked out cold. Second time this week.”
“Yeah, well, I also made the play, didn’t I?”
“Fine, you’re Derek Jeter,” Lucas snapped. “And you’re going to the hospital. The end.”
“Oh, so bossy and alpha male. I think I’m having an orgasm.”
